


Languages of Love

by noctecat



Category: Professional Wrestling, Ring of Honor, World Wrestling Entertainment, 新日本プロレス | New Japan Pro-Wrestling
Genre: Angst, Anthology, Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-09-26 20:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17148809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctecat/pseuds/noctecat
Summary: The five 'love languages', five couples, and the way they speak them.Chapter 3: Marty Scurll/Kenny Omega - 'acts of service'.





	1. My Heart Wrapped Up With A Bow (Kenny Omega/Kota Ibushi, Gift-giving.)

Admittedly, Kenny was, at the best of times, what some would describe as a tad bit _thick._

Not all the time. It wasn't something that could be considered a defining point of his personality - at least, he _hoped_ not. Nor was it something he would admit to just _anyone,_  but to his closest, _closest_ friends (of which there were only a few) and to himself he could say that yes, sometimes - _sometimes_ \- the obvious and otherwise clear flew right over his head.

“Kota buys you a lot of presents, huh?” Nick said the statement casually, without malice, like an observation he just happened to make and say aloud, but there was certainly an underlying question behind it beyond what was said. As there was with a lot of the Bucks’ ‘observations’ on his and Kota’s relationship, which they were still trying to figure out for themselves and still weren’t entirely used to. When Kenny looked up from where he had been eyeing up which piece of sushi he was set to devour next, he found both of them looking at him from across the table with thoughtful expressions.

“What?” His response came out half-mumbled around the last piece he had yet to finish chewing. Just as the Bucks were still unsure of him and Kota, Kenny was still wary of them, or, rather, how they interacted with Kota, and still defensive on reflex whenever they brought him up. There was the still the expectation in his mind that behind every one of their probing questions was a waiting jab, that they were constantly searching for weaknesses, insecurities in him or - arguably worse - Kota to sink their teeth into. He knew that, in reality, none of what his mind conjured up was happening at all, that they were all trying, _trying_ to make it work, but these things took longer to heal than the various bumps and bruises they were used to did.

“He buys you a lot of presents,” Matt repeated after his brother.

“Who? Kota?” Kenny thought for a moment, then frowned. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Yeah, he does. Like that.” Nick pointed at the small tray of sushi Kenny had been eating, which had been dropped off for him by Kota when he had stopped by on his way to visit some other friends of his.

“This? This isn’t a present.”

Both of their faces turned skeptical. Sometimes Kenny hated it when they both agreed on something and he didn’t; the way they could coordinate their arguments, even down to their expressions, without so much as a word between them, was unsettling. “Did you ask him to get it for you?” Matt asked.

Kenny shook his head. “No.”

“Did you pay him for it?” Nick asked.

Another head-shake.

“Sounds like a gift to me,” Matt said, with a sense of victorious satisfaction in his voice. Nick nodded in agreement, and Kenny’s eyes flickered between the two of them.

“I really don’t think-”

“And it’s not just that. He’s always getting you stuff,” Nick pointed out.

“No, he’s-”

“Breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks…” Matt held out a hand and counted off on his fingers as he spoke.

“I’m pretty sure half of your clothes are stuff he’s given you,” Nick added.

“He gave you, like, five birthday presents.”

“And at least three just for winning the title.”

“And whenever we travel, he-”

“ _Okay_ , guys,” Kenny interrupted them. Both looked at him with eyebrows raised in a very clear _‘I-told-you-so’_ way, but he shook his head once again. “You’re over-exaggerating. Really. He doesn’t buy me stuff that often.”

Matt laughed. “Yes, he does. You just don’t notice it.”

“I wish Ibushi brought _me_ all those presents.” Nick let out a dramatic, wistful sigh. “Hey, if you don’t appreciate it, Kenny, tell him to send some my way.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The two of them laughed in unison, and the subject was dropped. But throughout the rest of the day, it remained on Kenny’s brain, nagging away at him. He tried to think back over the past week, month, year, the entirety of his and Kota’s relationship. Did Kota really buy him an unusual amount of gifts? He was certainly extravagant every time his birthday, or Christmas, or some other event to be celebrated rolled around, but that was just _Kota_ , wasn’t it? He did the same for everyone else, Kenny was sure. The Bucks were right, though, in that he had never given it that much thought. He certainly hadn’t given much at all to the smaller things Kota brought him - food, and little souvenirs. But Matt and Nick were wrong - those weren’t _gifts._ Were they? He received more than one odd look from the people sat around him on the train home as he frowned to himself. Did he even know what a gift _was_ anymore?

Before the day had ended, a resolution had formed itself in his mind. He would count - it was as easy as that. Count every single thing Kota bought or gave him over the next week, including all the small gifts that Kenny didn’t think counted as such, but which Matt and Nick seemed to consider otherwise. He would prove them wrong, in an argument that wasn’t really all that important anyway (and that they had probably already forgotten about), but which had become increasingly important to _him_ as he had gone over it relentlessly in his mind. Kota brought him a perfectly normal (leaning on lavish, certainly, but still within the realm of normal) amount of presents, and it was perfectly reasonable that he had never taken all that much notice - or paid him back.

Day One came, and by the end of it, his count had already gone up three: a salad for lunch, a dinner out that Kota had insisted on taking him to because the restaurant was new and he had heard good things, and a Final Fantasy keychain he had bought him at a video game store in passing because he had thought Kenny might like it. He hadn't thought it was all that bad, really, but when he subtly asked Chase how many gifts  _he_ thought partners should be buying one another and he responded,  _"Uh, I don't know. Like, one for their birthday? One for Christmas? Um...or two, maybe, I don't know...",_ he grew concerned again.

Day One had just been the exception, not the rule, he decided.

But then Day Two came and went and increased the count by four: coffee and breakfast at a cafe, plane tickets for his next show in America, and a shirt and hoodie of Kota’s he had noticed Kenny wearing. He had offered to return the shirt, and when Kota had said he could have it, offered to return the hoodie, but that had only seemed to encourage him into giving Kenny both.

His resolve that this was perfectly _normal_ was faltering by the end of day four, when between that and day three the count had gone up by six - two more dinners, two more coffees, and a bulk pack of his favorite flavor of gum that Kenny hadn’t even known  _came_ in such amounts, let alone where on Earth Kota could have got it from. It was only six because Kenny had made the decision not to include the two mini souvenirs that came in plastic, gum-ball sized orbs that Kota had given Kenny to give to Matt and Nick to send back to their families. When he had, the two had laughed, Matt joking (at least, Kenny was pretty sure he was joking) that Kota only gave _them_ gifts because they were Kenny’s friends, but they accepted them regardless and told him to thank Kota for them, who merely shrugged it off like nothing when he did so.

Day Five brought him another shirt of Kota’s he had been caught wearing (and which had actually been sitting in his wardrobe for months, for so long he had forgotten it was Kota's in the first place entirely), his train fare travelling to and from the various places they visited together, and a range of groceries he had been running low on, which he had come home to find Kota had spontaneously decided to restock for him.

Day Six was a new charger for his phone, Kota scolding him that his old one had been held together through duct tape, particular angles and willpower for too long; some chapstick; a large bag of Christmas candies and a couple of small Christmas cakes - which Kota ate half of himself, so Kenny wasn’t entirely sure if it counted, anyway. But by now, he had all but given up on any hope he had still held that he was going to win this battle, and as he lay on the couch later that day, going over his ever-increasing count and half-wondering what entirely unnecessary and likely  _expensive_ gift Kota would return with for him tonight, found himself letting out a dejected sigh into his empty apartment. He reached for his phone.

“You were right,” Kenny blurted out to Matt as soon as he picked up. There was a long pause on the other end of the line, during which Kenny checked the time. Nine P.M. was far too early for him to be asleep, so he had no reason to scold Kenny for waking him up with his call (as he had done before the several times he had called with sudden crises without checking the time first).

“What?” was all he finally said, then, “Why are you calling me?”

“You and Nick were right. Kota _does_ buy me a lot of presents.”

“Wha- oh. _That_ ? I totally forgot about that.” He made an annoyed sound. “Why are you calling me about _that_?”

“Because I need your help.”

“You couldn’t have texted?” If eye-rolls were audible, Kenny could hear Matt’s loud and clear. Kenny decided he wasn’t going to have the argument with Matt, as he had just as many times before, about how some things just needed to be _talked_ about and not _texted_. Not tonight, at least. “Why do you need my help, anyway?”

“Because it’s a problem, Matt. He buys me all these gifts and I’ve never even noticed.”

“Yeah, because you’re an idiot.” There was a snort of laughter from Matt, and somewhere a short distance from the phone, another, which Kenny assumed was probably Nick. “Sorry, Kenny. But it really took you this long to notice? How long have you and Kota known each other?”

“Exactly! He’s probably been like this the whole time and I never even realized.”

“So?” was all Matt said, and Kenny blinked.

“What?”

“So, what? What’s the problem?”

“Well - I have to pay him back.”

Another snort. “No, you don’t.”

“What do you mean? Of course I do. It’s only fair. He’s been buying all these things for me this whole time and spending all this _money_ , and- oh, God, it's probably because he's  _worried_ about me-”

“Well, he doesn’t seem too bothered by the fact you’ve been too dumb to notice for this long. So, he probably doesn’t care, Kenny,” Matt stated, bluntly. “He probably would have stopped a long time ago if he did.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Matt,” Kenny said. “Of course he cares.”

“No, he-”

“Yes, he-”

“You probably couldn’t even pay him back if you wanted to, anyway,” he interrupted, and Kenny paused.

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” Matt began, and Kenny could tell by the tone of his voice that he was attempting to put what he was about to say in the kindest way possible. “I know you’re making more than you ever have now and all, Kenny, but-”

“But?”

“But...you guys have known each other for a long time. And Kota’s not exactly cheap.” He took a breath. “That’s... _a lot_ to pay back.”

Kenny didn’t respond. He wanted to argue with Matt, wanted to proclaim that he _could_ do it, that he would pay off every single cent he owed Kota in gifts from over the years, but- “Fuck,” was all he said, and Matt laughed again.

“Yeah. It’s not gonna happen.”

“But I have to do _something-_ ”

“You don’t. Really, Kenny, he doesn’t care.”

 _“Yeah, Kenny, he doesn’t care!”_ came Nick’s faint voice from the background.

Dragging a hand down his face, Kenny groaned. “I’ve gotta go. Thanks, guys.”

“Alright. But Kenny, really - he doesn’t care. Don’t sweat it.”

He sighed. “Bye.”

By eleven o'clock on the morning of Day Seven, Kota had already brought him coffee and breakfast, even in spite of Kenny trying to refuse, to the point of getting his own wallet out and watching dejectedly with it in hand as Kota smiled at him and handed over his own cash. It was as they were walking down the street together afterwards, for no particular reason than to enjoy the clear, if cool, weather and window-shop together, that Kota hooked an arm in his and pulled him slightly to one side with an expression that told Kenny all on it's own that he had bought him something else,  _another_ gift, that his guilty conscience pushed him into deciding that it was time he said something.

"Oh, by the way, Kenny, I bought-"

“Kota.” In one swift movement, Kenny stepped in front of him and spun on his heel so they were both facing each other, a hand coming to rest on Kota’s shoulder to stop him in his stride. Kota blinked at him, appearing somewhat surprised but not overwhelmingly so at Kenny’s rather erratic behavior. It wasn’t entirely unusual of him. “You know, you don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Get me all these gifts. I don’t-I mean, it’s not that I don’t really appreciate it, Kota, I just-” Kenny stopped mid-sentence and let a frustrated exhale out of his nose. The words he wanted to say - that he really  _was_ grateful for all the gifts, for everything Kota did for him, for  _Kota_ , and that was why he couldn't take it in the first place, because, as Matt had pointed out, there was  _no way_ he could ever do the same for him - refused to form themselves and come out in any sort of coherent manner. He was putting his foot in his mouth again. Kota watched him, patiently, as he started again, trying to come across better this time. “I- you know, I get paid more than you, now.”

Kota raised his eyebrows at this as a small, amused smile began to grow on his face. The statement had come out far more boastful than Kenny had intended it to, but Kota, clearly, had taken no offence, as Kenny would have expected. However much money Kenny brought in made no difference to him; they both knew he didn’t wrestle for money, nor did he need to.

“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant," He apologized, then made another frustrated sound, which only seemed to humor Kota more. “What I’m trying to say is...you don’t need to do this, Kota. I’m not sure if it’s pity, or you feel bad, or you’re worried, but you don’t need to do it anymore, Kota. I’m the champion, I make enough money now and-”

“Kenny-”

“-it’s not like when we were in DDT and I was broke all the time and I had to sleep on your couch. I’m okay now, Kota, you don’t need to take care of me-”

“Kenny.” Without hesitation, Kota placed a hand over Kenny’s mouth, bringing an abrupt end to his babble of an explanation. If it were anyone else, they would have likely been too embarrassed to do such a thing in the middle of the street in the middle of the day - as it were, Kenny could see out of the corner of his eye a couple of women in the window of a cafe giving them strange looks - but Kota, of course, was unfazed, his eyes on Kenny and Kenny alone. He still looked amused, smile wide enough now that, as he forced his own eyes to focus on him, Kenny could see the whispers of laughter lines appearing around his eyes. It made him wonder whether, in his rush to explain himself, he had tripped up on what he had intended to say, perhaps through a slip of his Japanese, and turned it into a joke of some sort that Kota was finding hilarious and not at all as serious as Kenny intended it to be.

“Kenny,” Kota said again and, seemingly satisfied that he was going to remain quiet now, removed his hand from Kenny’s mouth. “I don’t give you things because I feel bad for you.”

Kenny shook his head. “Kota, you don’t have to pretend-”

“I’m not pretending, Kenny.” Instead of growing frustrated, as Kenny would have expected from, well, anyone else in response to his persistence, Kota’s voice remained level. Warm, even, and Kenny realized then that Kota’s gaze had grown from amused to something more akin to fond. Loving. “I don’t give you things out of pity, or worry, or whatever else you said. I buy them because I love you.”

“You-”

“I love you, Kenny.” Kota cocked his head slightly to one side as he watched Kenny’s confused face attempt to decipher what he was saying. “You know that, don’t you?”

Kenny _did_ know that. Of course he did. He had known for years, even before Kota had ever said the words out loud to him. But Kota had always given him gifts, even before…

A look of realization washed over Kenny’s face, and now, Kota laughed out loud at him.

“But, you don’t have to-”

“I _want_ to, Kenny.” Kota held up a finger this time - more acceptable than a hand over his mouth, at least - and reached into one pocket of many on his overly elaborate (and undoubtedly expensive) jacket. He drew out a small box, hardly larger than the palm of his hand, and decorated with simple Christmas designs. “I love you,” He said, as he handed it over.

Kenny held the box in his hand, staring down at it, but couldn't bring himself to open it. "But- Kota-" He looked up at Kota, who once again had a patient look on his face. "I feel bad. I can't repay you."

"Oh, I don't care." Kenny stared at him, his brain still struggling to process the idea that Kota couldn't possibly care about all the _money_ , let alone all the time and effort and thought and love put into giving him so much, and Kota shrugged at him. "What? Kenny, I really don't."

Suddenly, he laughed. "That's what Matt and Nick said."

Kota looked confused for a moment. "Matt and Nick?" Then, he looked suddenly irritated. "Are they the reason you're so bothered about this?"

"No! No. They just pointed out that you buy me a lot of presents and, well, you do, and I...I just feel bad, Kota."

For a moment, Kota's face remained tense, as though he was deciding whether it was worth remaining upset at Matt and Nick for any longer, then (apparently deciding it wasn't) he smiled softly at him again. "Kenny. I don't care. Really." He reached out his hand once more, but this time it was to stroke his hair lightly. "You do enough for me just by being you."

"I..." Kenny began,  then stopped, but this time not for an inability to form words - rather, a lack of them entirely.

"You should open that." Kota tapped the box, which Kenny still held in one hand, and he nodded, moving to lift the lid. Inside, resting on layers of pastel tissue paper, was a small enamel pin, shaped and painted like a tiny, festively-dressed cartoon bear. The bear held up to him a heart, tied up in a bow with wrapping-paper ribbon.

Once again, Kenny found himself without the words to express what he was feeling, stuck instead staring ahead in silence. "Do you like it?" Kota asked him. "It's so cheesy. And stupid. It made me think of you." Kota broke into a grin as Kenny looked up at him, and he found himself grinning back.

"I love it." He brushed his thumb over the face of the pin, then slid the lid back onto it and, almost out of natural instinct rather than with any intention, pulled it in to his chest, holding it there. "I love it. I love you, Kota."

Kenny eyed a faint blush spreading across Kota's cheeks - more so than the one he already had from the cold - as he shrugged again and mumbled a phrase of gratitude. Kenny slipped the box into his own pocket as Kota stepped forward and curled an arm around his, as he had before, the two of them continuing their walk down the street arm-in-arm now.

"I can stop, if you like," Kota said, after a moment. "If it really makes you feel bad."

Kenny thought for a moment. "It's okay," He said. "But you could...slow down a little, maybe."

Kota laughed. "Okay."

"If you really feel like you have to give away something, though, Matt and Nick said they wouldn't mind."

"Right. Matt and Nick." Kota's tone grew a little more serious. "About that-"

"They didn't mean anything by it, Kota," Kenny interrupted hurriedly. It would be typical of him to inadvertently cause a rift between his friends (again) right before Christmas. "It was just me overthinking things again."

"Again." Kota snorted in amusement at him, and Kenny nudged him in the ribs with an elbow, which only served to make him laugh again. "I will admit, though...it does make Christmas shopping hard.” He glanced at him with a guilty look. “I still don’t know what to get you.”

Kenny smiled at him re-assuredly and this time, gave his arm a comforting squeeze. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Kota squeezed his arm back. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternately titled, 'Kenny Omega is as dumb as he is in love and everyone knows it.'
> 
> I didn't intend for this to be Christmas-themed (and none of the others in the series will be, or at least I don't plan on them being) but it just sort of happened as I wrote it, given the season and all. I intended to get this out on Christmas Day but I think I'm a little late...oh well, at least I got close. :P
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! Kudos, comments and subscriptions are _greatly_ appreciated. Merry Christmas, if you celebrate it, and a happy holidays and new year!


	2. My Heart Is Made of Every Word You Said to Me (Kevin Owens/Sami Zayn, Words of affirmation.)

“Who the fuck is he?”

Is the first sentence Sami ever hears Kevin speak about him. He’s sat in the corner of what they have been told is their locker-room for the night, but barely passes for one - they’re all shoulder to shoulder, bags and clothes and water bottles and gear scattered across the ugly carpet floor, the walls still adorned with posters advertising the adult night classes that usually took place here. Sami glances up from his position, also on the floor, knees to his chest and back to the wall, and is met with Kevin's finger pointing at him from the opposite corner of the room. His friends - friends? They seem to know each other, at least - stare at him, as does he, with a semi-scowl on his face. One of them speaks,

“Newbie. El...Generic…whatever.”

“El Generico,” Sami corrects him. Not that he expects it to be of much use - he’s already learned he has yet to earn the privilege of having those around him actually remember his name. But he tries to earn their respect nonetheless, and it is such that drives him to stand and take the few steps to cross the room and hold his hand out to Kevin. Kevin stares at it, the expression on his face still making him appear somewhat perturbed by his existence.

“El...the fuck? Are you even Mexican?”

Sami wants to inform him that there is a myriad of other Spanish-speaking countries he could be from besides Mexico, but he knows he shouldn’t. Just like he knows he should act humble, subservient, despite the fact that he also knows, for a fact, that Kevin has barely more experience here than he does; he simply seems to have made friends - acquaintances, allies - far faster than Sami has. But despite this knowledge, he finds himself nodding, and staring at Kevin with a deadpan expression on his face that he’s certain Kevin can see in his eyes even beyond the mask.

“ _Sí._ ”

For a second, Kevin’s expression appears mixed. Torn between amusement and annoyance, perhaps. But then he exhales and rolls his eyes - rather over-dramatically, if you were to ask Sami.

“What-the fuck-ever." He folds his arms over his chest, clearly snubbing Sami’s attempt at a handshake. As Sami withdraws his outstretched hand, he continues, “I don’t give a fuck who you are, or where you’re from, or what your fuckin’ name is. All you need to know is my name is Kevin Steen, and I’m gonna kick your ass. Maybe not today, but at some point, I will. Got it?”

There’s a snicker from Kevin’s friends at his side, and from a couple others around the room. Sami glances at them, briefly, then looks back to Kevin, and nods.

“Got it, Kevin-” He cuts himself off, and frowns.

Kevin raises his eyebrows at him.

“Kevin-” He tries again.

He sees, even if no one else does, the muscles in Kevin’s jaw tense and flex.

“Kevin-”

“Steen,” Kevin finally finishes for him, his voice less cool, now, and more obviously frustrated. “Kevin Steen.”

“ _No hablo inglés. Perdón.”_ He ducks his head and does a loose, half-bow sort of movement to Kevin before turning and scurrying back to his corner, more so Kevin can’t see the smile beginning to turn the corners of his mouth up than for any other reason. He hears Kevin exhale sharply behind him, before sneering at his back,

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Fuck off, El Fuckface.”

* * *

They wrestle each other for the first time several weeks later, and it clicks. Sami isn’t sure what he would call it - an understanding, a connection, chemistry, or, even, love. The only word that his breathless and swept away brain can conjure up is _‘soulmates’._ But then, he also thinks that maybe he’s simply hit his head a little too hard, and should really go see a doctor.

Until he passes Kevin backstage.

They both pause, then Kevin nods at him.

“You know, you’re not all that bad, El Generico.”

Sami opens his mouth to respond, but finds he has nothing at all to say, and closes it once more. He nods, instead, and they both simultaneously seem to take this as their cue to continue on their way past each other.

* * *

“Kevin is, uh, brutally honest,” Sami says, with a self-aware cough into the back of his hand. “To a fault.”

He’s explaining it to Delirious, the two of them sitting on the couch in the lounge of some random worker from the area one of the guys knew, who had foolishly allowed himself to be talked into opening up his house for tonight’s party. Said party was already quickly dissolving into a living, breathing car crash of angry drunk people, messy drunk people and horny drunk people; there were already cigarette burn marks on the fabric of the cushions they sat on, and fresh stains made by mysterious liquids on the carpet below their feet. Kevin had left them only moments before, making a beeline for the group huddled in the corner of the adjourning room, the leader of which he had decided needed to hear his exact opinions on him, his posse, his hair and his attitude. Delirious had asked Sami what beef Kevin had with the poor, sour-faced guy, and had been confused when Sami informed him that he had none.

“You see, if it were me,” Sami continues, “if I didn’t like the way someone looked at me at a party, for example, or something like that, I’d keep it to myself and wait for them to actually _do_ something. Something more...obvious. And even then, I might not outright call them out for it. I might try to avoid them, or take some other method. I wouldn’t outright start a verbal confrontation with them until I absolutely felt like I had to.”

“But Kevin…”

“Kevin will tell you, straight, how he feels about you. Without hesitation. And in no uncertain terms.” As if on cue, Kevin’s voice carries over the already loud music towards them as he informs the tall, long-haired brunette leader of all the reasons why he is a terrible match for his girlfriend, and how he’s certain the poor young woman has never known a moment of satisfaction in their time together. Sami wonders if this is his method of wingman-ing for Delirious.  “He uses his words,” Sami paraphrases, after they both take a moment’s pause to listen, saying it like one would when describing the playground habits of a toddler.

Delirious raises his eyebrows at him from across the couch.

“...And then his fists,” Sami adds, and they both laugh.

They’re still laughing over the quirks of one Kevin Steen when Kevin rejoins them, plopping himself down in the empty space between them which he had left before. They both watch him, waiting for an explanation of some sort, but he says nothing.

“Did that go well?” Sami asks him, breaking the lull in conversation. Kevin nods, once.

“Yep. Great. Fine. Perfectly well.” He says nothing again for a few moments, before he turns to Sami and says, with only the slightest bit of urgency detectable in his tone, “Unrelated, but we should really get going.”

“Oh, _unrelated_ , I’m sure,” Delirious says with a grin as Sami just barely manages to stop himself from laughing out loud. Kevin’s head snaps to the other side to look at him, and Sami can tell he’s about to bark something at him that would likely boil down to, _“Shut your fucking mouth,_ ” but he puts a hand on Kevin's arm to stop him before he can.

“Alright, we'll go. Do you want to come with?” Kevin’s gaze turns to Sami again, although this time with a bewildered (and mildly disgruntled) look on his face. Both he and Delirious, shaking his head, ignore him.

“Nah. I’ll stay. Put them off your scent for a little bit.” He grins again. Sami shoots him a grateful smile as he stands, and pulls Kevin up by the arm before he can snark back at Delirious that there’s _no one_ to put off the scent because _nothing_ went wrong.

“Seeya. C’mon, Kevin.” He tugs Kevin along with him towards the door. He maintains his firm grasp on Kevin with one hand as they navigate their way through the party-goers, all the while resisting the urge to look back to see if any of the group Kevin had been hassling had spotted their attempt at a getaway. “Please try not to insult anyone between here and the door," He says to Kevin, half-jokingly, but half entirely seriously. "Please.”

At this, Kevin turns a look of indignation on him, but he still allows himself to be pulled along by him even in spite of his pretend outrage, which he voices in a bickering tone as they approach the door,

“I _did not_ , Sami, I-”

* * *

They’re lying with their eyes to the ceiling, side-by-side, shoulders pressed against one another’s. The room is dark and blue, illuminated by what little electric light of city limits suburbia can manage to penetrate the thin hotel curtains. Neither of them can bring themselves to stand and turn on the room’s light, which is its own ugly false white and which they both know would likely only worsen the headaches that afflicted them. Similarly, neither of them can muster up the energy to tell the other to go back to his own room, but this, admittedly, is not unusual; it’s not the first time, nor, Sami expected, would it be the last, they have shared a bed, especially out of exhaustion. They are sore and tired; Sami’s chest protests at the movement of every breath, his neck and shoulders conducting their own chorus of complaints, and he can feel the tenderness in every movement of Kevin’s next to him, no matter how minuscule. Their muscles - and their mental states - have been pushed to their very limits, and yet they had not been rewarded with the victory rush of endorphins they had rightfully deserved for their efforts.

Next to him, he feels Kevin inhale deeply, and then hears him exhale a large sigh. He feels the pain of his movement, and finds himself wincing for him.

“Are we ever going to get those titles, Sami?”

It’s rare - almost unheard of - that Kevin should say such a sentence out loud; one that implies such despair, that holds such a sense of surrender, that is, almost, just nearly, a confession of defeat. A sentiment that almost seems to have come from self-doubt, the last trait Kevin Steen is known for.

Sami’s eyes strain to focus on the ceiling, which has all but dissolved into shadow, seeking out something - anything - to focus on. But it is almost as though they have fallen out of the flow of time itself and are now merely floating in a sort of limbo - or purgatory, depending on how cynical one feels - where nothing is solid or within grasp, except for the other body lying next to his.

Prickles of pain burst all over his chest and diaphragm as he lets out a sigh of his own. “Yeah. We will, Kevin.”

“But-”

“No. Don’t say it.” It is just as rare that Sami should interrupt Kevin - he usually allows Kevin to carry out whatever rant he has decided to go on at that moment to its natural conclusion, no matter how nonsensical it is nor how much he may disagree - but, as Sami has noticed, they seem to have slipped out of their familiar, regular world into another in which what is ‘normal’ is entirely not anymore. “If you say something, then you make it real.”

“What?” He feels Kevin turn his head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed together. “That’s not true at all. I could say ‘pigs can fly’ and that doesn’t mean-”

“But it makes it a possibility. It puts it out there for everyone, the rest of the world to consider as something that _could_ happen. So don’t say it.” He knows Kevin is going to try to argue with him and his logic - an old saying, a belief, passed down to him by who-knows-who from God-knows-where - so he reaches his hand over the tiny, almost non-existent distance between them - hardly a distance at all - to put his hand on Kevin’s arm and squeeze it. When he turns his own head to look at him, Kevin’s mouth is still open but he is frozen, the words he was about to say - for once - ripped from his mouth before he could put form to them. Nothing moves but his eyes, which make the tiniest of flickers as he studies Sami’s features in the dim. Sami notes, in the back of his mind, that he has never seen Kevin this still, nor this quiet. “We’ll win those titles, Kevin. We will.”

There is silence. It seems that even the cars, the people, the rest of the world outside of their little pocket of existence is stopped in place. Then Kevin moves, almost seeming to let himself fall forward, and presses his forehead to Sami’s. It is, again, a small movement, but it seems to shift the axis of their entire existence. 

“God, I really do love you.”

* * *

He can cover his ears and try to block it out as much as he likes, but it’s no use.

“He doesn’t mean it, Sami.” It’s Colt who tries first to shake him out of his almost comatose state of grief, his hand on Sami’s shoulder as they watch Kevin on his laptop screen. Sami has had no desire to seek out the video - Sami hasn’t had the desire to get out of bed - but Colt has taken it upon himself to decide that he has to see it: Kevin spewing sentences of hatred, callous and cruel and vicious and spiteful words. Words specifically designed and manufactured with all the spines and thorns and venom and toxins available and thrown with all the velocity possible to cause as much damage to their victim as feasible. Weapons of mass and entirely and undeniably, unavoidably _personal_ destruction. Words that are now directed entirely and undeniably, unavoidably towards _him._

“He does,” Sami murmurs. It’s the first thing he’s said since the video loaded. Kevin is still speaking; his words are so loud, so absolutely destructive, that anything else said seems to get torn apart, incinerated and lost in the wake of them, fading and disappearing into the dust of an atomic cloud.

“He doesn’t,” Colt says, firmly. But his resolve in the sentiment, no matter how well-meaning, weakens over the coming weeks as the words continue to fly, and their intensity, the passion and real and true belief behind them, only grows stronger. They continue to target him and embed themselves under his skin, dirty, nasty splinters he can’t seem to get out, they’re so deep; they grow infected and leave his blood poisoned, his body and soul weak and weeping.

“Just ignore him,” Someone - Sami doesn’t look at them or take notice of their voice long enough to register it to a face - says to him, once, when he’s lying on the floor of the locker-room, when can’t bring himself to sit or stand up, the poison has traveled so deep inside of him. It will take him a good, long while to do so, as it usually does when his old wounds have once again been provoked and new ones created. This becomes regular, just as ‘ _ignore_ ’ seems to become the regular mantra of everyone around him when it becomes clear to them that maybe, just maybe, Kevin isn't just throwing around words without meaning, that he really does mean what he says.

_"Don’t pay attention to him."_

_"It doesn’t matter."_

_"You shouldn’t listen to what he says."_

But again, their words are consumed by Kevin’s, cremated in the unholy and unnatural fire of his own, so that by the time they get through the murky and hard to see through fog of Sami's mind, they are nothing but ash, their original form and purpose unrecognizable.

The physical pain - the beatings - hurts too, but Sami has felt physical pain before. Over and over and over, at Kevin’s own hand, too. He is resilient; Kevin himself had always marveled at the ability of his body to absorb punishment upon punishment, even while he was the one striking him in the face or throwing him across a ring. But he has found another avenue, now, it was clear. He has learned the inner details of Sami’s soul, its structure, its architecture and make-up, and found it to be not nearly as tough as the outer shell that protected it. And that inner weakness was what he now targeted, in the way only he knew how, and which only he did best, and which Sami knows because he, too, has learned Kevin’s soul.

He is growing feverish with the infection Kevin has planted in him,.

His mask and cape glitter and blur before his eyes as he puts them on, his eyes unable to track them, becoming little more than a pointless haze to attempt to mask something his opponent, his enemy, already knows too well. Sami has thought a lot, lately, about how this would be so much easier if he didn’t, if they were complete strangers, but then he thinks that everything else up to this point would have been so much harder, as well, if they were.

He turns to the door to make his march to, he knows, likely meet his maker, and finds him already standing there. There are no pixels to filter what he says, now.

“I hate you, El Generico.”

Of everything he has said, it is the least elaborate, the least horrifying in its eloquence or almost beautiful in its sheer destructive force, but it is this that is the proverbial dagger to Sami’s heart. His fever breaks completely.

“I hate you, too.”

* * *

It’s stupid, Sami knows.

Dumb. Idiotic. Absolutely foolish.

But he still finds himself standing outside the door to Kevin’s hotel room that morning, regardless.

He had explained his plan - barely a plan at all, really, more of a vague idea of where he wanted to go and what he wanted to do but with no clear path as to how to get there or what to do once he  _was_ there - to Adrian Neville, who had become something of a friend or ally since he arrived in NXT - until this whole title business, which has made tensions between them now run rather high. But this conversation had come before that, when they had both first heard the news - rumors, then - that Kevin was making the jump. Neville had said to him, in his own words - _“Are you fucking daft, Sami?”_ \- that it was completely moronic of him to consider offering even the ghost of an olive branch to Kevin. He had been surprised Sami still kept up with what Kevin was doing, even, after everything that had happened, and that the two of them had managed what small reunification they had shortly before Sami himself had left. By all rights, he had said, Sami should hate his guts to the point of complete aversion, no questions asked.

But Sami has learned, by now, that with him and Kevin, that is impossible. He still doesn’t understand it, just as he didn’t understand - and still doesn’t - that feeling of _connection_ when he and Kevin wrestle, whether it be alongside or against each other, but it’s undeniable. They are intangibly linked, and impossible to separate, like the moon hanging above the violent and destructive waves of the ocean as it pushes them and sends them crashing down upon the shore.

So, against all better judgement, he knocks on his door.

A part of him expects to be greeted by a fist to the teeth, but Kevin doesn’t do that. It’s far too on the nose for him, anyway. Instead, he greets him just as he would greet any old friend. And for that morning in his hotel room, it is almost as though nothing has changed at all; as though they have both healed, have finally stopped picking at their sores long enough for them to scar over, and the hurt of old wounds that hounded them and drove them on has gone.

But there’s still a vacuum in the air around them; the silence of words unspoken. It's something that Sami doesn't come to realize or understand until later that night, perhaps because he chooses not to acknowledge it, chooses to believe otherwise. Foolishly optimistic, Kevin always called him. He doesn't realize it when he is victorious, nor when everyone is there and watching him and congratulating him, or when _Kevin_ is there and hugging him and congratulating him; when he still may have had time to do something about it or, at the very least, _run_. But in the split second it takes for Kevin to whirl around as they are on the ramp, and right before his arm comes to collide with Sami's chest and slam him, already weakened back first, into the steel below them, his eyes meet Kevin’s and he knows, then. He feels the silence, and, as though finally able to let go now that he realizes it, the vacuum breaks and the words that should have been said come rushing in to fill the space, although in the blur Sami's not sure if it's because Kevin really speaks them out loud or because their souls truly are so intertwined that he can hear Kevin’s words with him needing to form them, now,

_“I hate you.”_

And as he feels the familiar crack of his body colliding with the edge of a wood and steel ring roll up his spine, and his brain fills with such clean, white pain that all other senses fail, his heart is deafened in the following silence.

* * *

He spends weeks, months, petitioning for a match. _Just one match_ , only one, it’s all he needs and he knows he’ll be able to win and prove to them, to A.J., to Shane, to _everyone_ that he’s the champion Smackdown - the entire WWE - deserves.

For the duration of his career, from that very first day he stepped into the ring, throughout everything, all the hurt and pain, the injuries and the setbacks, and every awful thing said about and to him, right up to the present, Sami has never tried to force what he wants. He’s always _wanted_ , of course, he's never been one content to simply sit back and let things be in their mediocre and disappointing state when he knows they can be _better_. But he’s never tried to take it by force; he’s been annoying, _pushy_ , at most, but he’s never gone out of his way to go behind the backs of others, to injure them with intent, to beat them up and strip their strength - mental, physical - down to the point that they can no longer stop him.

But there comes a point when push comes to shove. There always does.

He’s arguing with Shane in the locker room, again, but this time Shane doesn’t even pretend to consider his terms or requests. He doesn’t look at him, nor say good-bye when he leaves the room; just slams the door in his face, the bang of the door colliding with it’s frame putting a loud and clear period on the end of his equally loud and clear,

“ _No._ ”

Sami can do nothing but stand in place and stare at the closed door, now forming a wall, physically and mentally, in front of him, the echoes of it and Shane’s voice filling his head and bouncing painfully off the inside of his skull. He’s not sure how long he stands there, but the rest of the locker room begin to filter out of the room around him, the occasional friendly face giving him a slap on the shoulder of consolation or a murmured sentiment of sympathy.

_“Sorry, Sami.”_

_“Tough luck.”_

_“You’ll get it - eventually.”_

Soon enough, the room is almost empty. Entirely so, Sami thinks at first, until he hears the sound of movement behind him, of someone shifting their weight in place, and feels the back of his neck prickle as something familiar tugs at his soul. He knows who it is before he turns.

Kevin holds his gaze. He is still; no sneer, no glare, no contempt bubbling beneath the surface.

“You really do deserve it, Sami. You deserve it more than any of them.”

He walks towards him, then, and for a second, Sami thinks he’s going to reach out and touch him. Perhaps because he _wants_ Kevin to reach out and touch him. But Kevin keeps walking, instead, straight past him, and Sami watches him the entire way as he leaves out that same door Shane did, leaving it wide open and swinging on its hinges behind him.

* * *

Sami doesn’t realize what he’s doing, or who he’s doing it for, until he’s already done it, and then he finds that he doesn’t regret it at all.

As soon as the bell is rung, they’re hurried backstage, rushed into one of the quiet, private back rooms of the arena with very few people outside of the most crucial and, most importantly, the kind that won’t talk, especially if they happen to see something that could be construed as not entirely professional. Kevin is escorted to a bench, where one doctor takes up place in front of him to begin examining him; Shane is shown to a similar one on the other side of the room, while Sami is directed to stand by the wall between them and wait until someone addresses him. It doesn’t take long; Shane comes to from his daze with all the wrath of an enraged and deceived McMahon, and storms over to him, his doctors falling by the wayside. He begins to rant, but Sami’s not listening, watching Kevin the whole time from the corner of his eye, trying to remember all he knows about medical exams and what is a good sign and what is not. His attention only centers on Shane when Shane grabs his shoulder and turns him away, completely, from Kevin in order to look at him, face-to-puffed up and reddened face.

“Who do you think you _are_?” Shane snaps at him, and Sami hears his voice building, a deep, foreboding growl growing behind it, the ominous roar of an out of control blaze you hear before you turn to see the flames reaching out to lick at you and sear your skin. But before Shane can open his mouth to bring his fiery wrath down upon him any further, to scorch him into the Earth, to blight him, Kevin is holding his arm and speaking,

“His _name_ is Sami Zayn," Kevin's words come crashing down with their own hiss and roar. They flood the room with the force of a tidal wave, washing away any obstacle, any opposition. They extinguish, without hesitation and without any trouble at all, the flames of the wildfire below that had been jumping up to threaten the sky. Sami looks at him, not understanding for a moment, and he doesn't look back, but Sami feels him squeezes his arm tighter, and Sami looks back as Kevin finishes his sentence, without a hint of hesitation in his words, "And I _love_ him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire piece is rather...experimental. In tense, formatting, and in how well it fits into the concept of this whole series. But I did set the concept for myself, so I suppose that means I get to set the parameters of it and decide how closely I follow them, hm? :P I just hope I didn't butcher the idea too much in the process of the execution. I'm not sure how I feel about it; let me know what you think, haha. 
> 
> At the very least, writing this has got me itching to find all of my Ring of Honor DVDs ft. the Steenerico feud, so there's that. (Not that I need any more distractions in my life...)
> 
> Anyway, as always, I hope you enjoyed reading, and kudos, comments and bookmarks are greatly appreciated! :)


	3. My Heart Carried On My Shoulders For You (Marty Scurll/Kenny Omega, Acts of Service)

It was just unfortunate, really, that he happened to draw the comparison between the two of them.

That the comparison could be made at all.

 

* * *

If he was being honest, he couldn’t remember what show it happened at or what tour it was on anymore. It was during one of those weeks on weeks on end which bled into each other, like too many colors getting mixed into the paint pot and the whole thing turning grey and cloudy. But it was after a show, because he was in his ring gear, towel in one hand, searching for a shower to fight off the damp chill that was beginning to creep over him from the sweat cooling on his body. In a way, he hated the hallways backstage at the venues they wrestled at in Japan; they were always the same, all over the country, with the same sort of bland floors and bland walls and small spaces. But they were always clean, at least, and had some facilities, which was more than he could say for some of the one-room, glorified closets over in America.

They always seemed to be empty, too. The way the soft sound of Marty’s feet tapping on the ground as he walked filled the space made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

His feet stumbled into each other somewhat as he walked. At this rate, he was going to trip himself up. It wasn’t from pain - he hurt, of course he did, but it was the usual ache of wrestling and not the sharp, urgent, threatening pain of injury, of bones or muscles or tendons or ligaments screaming,  _ ‘Something is wrong’. _ It wasn’t from tiredness, either - to his surprise, he had been less fatigued this trip than the last. It was the thinking keeping him alert. It was the thinking that was tripping him up. One thought appearing, then getting rammed into by another, followed by another coming at it from the other side, another crushing down upon the rest from above, until the inside of his head looked like a psychological multi-car pile-up; the whole disaster scene blurred by a thick smokescreen of emotions, difficult to see through, nigh impossible to breathe in when he attempted to wade through them.

It was noticeable, too.

 

* * *

_ He was sat at the end of the table at the restaurant. The others had formed a huddle around the opposite end, trying to come to a decision on what dish to order (and what each dish was exactly) in low voices. His eyes weren’t focused on them; in fact, they weren’t focused on anything, aimed at the empty space between the crevice where the wall met the ceiling across the room. He was thinking, again, thinking about- _

_ “Hey,” Kenny said as he slid into the chair across from Marty’s. Someone else had been sitting there before, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember who. But it was Kenny’s now. Marty blinked once, hard, forcing his eyes to refocus, his short-distance vision to kick in again. One of the lamps across the room had disappeared behind Kenny’s head, lighting up with a soft, yellow light the halo of curls around the mop he called his hair. Kenny’s hair always seemed so messy, especially compared to how put-together everyone was in Japan - even Marty felt the urge to tidy himself up a little. It was as though his hair itself had decided to abide by its own rules, not the ones dictated by company or country.  _

_ Kenny was watching him with an elbow propped up on the table, head resting on his hand. He had a lollipop in his mouth, which, as Marty watched, he pushed to one side, giving a glimpse of slick cherry red-colored candy as the white plastic stick rattled against his teeth. That was rude. Probably extra rude in Japan. Kenny must have known it was rude. Marty wondered if he was doing it just for them, a chance to act like the cool, careless, indifferent foreigners. Or maybe that was cool here, too. Maybe Kenny was cool everywhere. _

_ Where did he even get a lollipop, anyway? _

_ Oh, right. He picked it up on our way here, from a convenience store, when he went in to grab some tape for- _

_ “Marty.” _

_ He was thinking again. _

_ “Oh. Hey. Hey, Kenny.” He did some quick mental housekeeping and shoved the mess in his head to the very back and closed the door on it, for now. Until company had left. _

_ Kenny looked at him for a long moment without saying anything further and Marty began to panic, trying to comb through the records of his hearing to figure out if Kenny had said something else he had missed. He had taken the lollipop out of his mouth and now held it in his other hand, the light reflecting in gashes of pure white across it as it stuck out in the open air. At last, Kenny put Marty out of his misery and asked, “How are you?” _

_ The question was such a normal progression of conversation that it took Marty a moment to process it. In their line of work, normal conversation - the ‘how are you’s, the ‘how was your days’, the ‘are you feeling alright’s - wasn’t the usual, no matter how much, sometimes, someone might wish it was. “I’m good. Doing good. Uh, you?” _

_ Kenny gave him a small smile in response, but it was hardly a pull at the corners of his mouth and not convinced at all. He still had his eyes on Marty, not flickering once to the continued hum of murmurs from the rest of the group to their side. It was hard to look away from Kenny when he had his attention on you, Marty found. He had that ability, one people attributed with awe to icons and heroes that got put up on walls in poster form and had their names written in gold trophies, gold awards. Or maybe it was less that Kenny had that ability, and more that Marty lacked the ability to look away. _

_ “I’m good.” The answer was quick and simple, and swiftly pushed aside for another question, “Tired?” _

_ Marty found himself somewhat grateful to be able to shake his head. “No. Actually, no. Not that much. It’s...better this time.” _

_ “Hmm.” Kenny’s gaze wandered away from him now to the table and it’s decor, wrapped, clean, unused cutlery, a smooth table-cloth that the light gave a buttery yellow tinge to, making it look like a perfectly carved block of white chocolate. As he thought about Marty’s response and how it slotted in to whatever had motivated him to approach him now, he bridged the empty space between responses by placing the lollipop back in his mouth, swirling it around with a steady, metronomic rhythm, as though it were following the ticking of his brain. A voice from the locked closet in the back of Marty’s mind let out a harsh and bitter laugh. It was a salacious taunt directed exclusively at him by the world itself if there had ever been one.  _

_ When Kenny was ready to speak again, his eyes snapped back on to Marty and the lollipop returned to his hand. “Well, that’s good.” The flash of a smile he shot at Marty was at least more genuine this time, and he let out a small, light laugh. “I told you it would get easier.” _

_ Marty’s own mouth attempted to mirror Kenny’s smile. “Yeah, you did. And it did.” _

_ For a second, Marty thought that was it, a brief well-being check on Kenny’s part, a courtesy call from the leader of the Bullet Club himself. That he would get up and leave with a smile, return to the rest with their bickering and bad translations. But he continued as quickly as he had earlier, “You seem sort of…” He began and made a vague hand gesture towards Marty, long fingers flexing in a way to encompass him, his body, his aura, his entire being, at least from where Kenny was sitting. The lollipop came to be poised in front of his lips, like a ‘break in case of emergency’ device should the words he was searching for to describe what sat before him not come fast enough. But they did, and he pulled it away again as he finished, “...out of it, though. You sure you’re okay?” _

_ Marty swallowed. He still wasn’t hungry, nor thirsty. “Yeah, yeah...just-” _

_ “Thinking?” Kenny suggested. It was just that - a  _ suggestion  _ \- with nothing more behind it, no mischievous or malicious intent, but Marty felt his stomach abruptly twist, his throat tighten and ache like something had been shoved and become lodged down there. _

_ “Uh...yeah. Thinking.” His heart let out a harsh beat that he felt reverberate through his chest. Kenny was still staring at him and, as much as he tried his hardest not to look it, Marty wondered if he could see him floundering and gasping on the inside, a fish yanked to the surface and dumped on the trawler boat floor. “Guess you could call it that.” _

_ Kenny leaned in towards him, looking up at him from underneath the shadow of pushed-aside curls. Close enough that Marty could faintly smell the scent of cherry. A split-second thought crossed his mind about whether anyone, anywhere in this restaurant, was watching them - and, if so, what the hell they thought they were talking about. Kenny raised his free hand and again made a gesture towards Marty, his fingers this time seeming to lead him, pull him in. “About…” He drew the word out in a low, humming tone. _

_ If the inside of Marty’s skull had been bad before, it was nothing compared to the physical world around him in that moment. Everyone was watching and listening to them, but no one was looking at them and nothing could be heard over the usual restaurant raucous in the room anyway. He could feel the ridges of his fingerprints creating friction as they collided with the meticulously designed and woven peaks and valleys of the cotton tablecloth. For the first time, his eyes managed to pull away from where they had locked on to Kenny, searching for somewhere, anywhere else to find salvation from judgement, but as soon as they had escaped they were sucked in by the lollipop. Vivid, glossy red amongst the increasing, overwhelming neutrals. It was a beacon, a flare blazing hot and unattended, burning it’s message of desperation into his retinas.  _

_ It was ridiculous. All of it. He didn’t have an answer to Kenny’s question - he still couldn’t figure it out - but it seemed his subconscious had already decided without telling him and reacted accordingly. _

_ “...belts?” Marty was brought back to his state a minute earlier by the word and by Kenny’s voice, his almost murmuring tone, and his eyes moved back to look at him as the world shifted a gears down from ‘hyper-focus’ back to ‘normal focus’. Kenny was still speaking, “...Trophies? Tournaments? Winning?” _

_ Marty didn’t stop to think about the implications, if any were hidden there at all, in what Kenny was saying; his mind, again acting without permission, jumped at the pre-packaged response, and the words seemed to form themselves in his mouth, “Yeah. Exactly.” _

_ Kenny gave a slight nod of his head, his mouth taking on an affirmative twist to it. “I know the feeling.” _

_ Marty’s mouth was not finished operating on its own and ensuring that what Kenny thought was keeping him preoccupied was assuredly the  _ only  _ thing Kenny thought was keeping him preoccupied. The sounds which, to his own shock, seemed to come together as coherent words, continued to tumble out, “It’s just...it’s a lot of pressure, you know? They fly you over here to wrestle and compete in these matches, these big tournaments-” _

_ “And you feel like you have to be the best, all the time, wrestle perfectly and beat everyone no matter what because, if you sucked and lost even once, you’re just another overrated foreigner and why should they bother with you ever again?” Kenny stopped and waited on him for a response. Marty’s brain and mouth seemed caught between spewing more nonsense in the vein of what it was Kenny was saying and simply shutting up and letting Kenny continue to do the talking for him. In the end, Marty forced himself to give a single nod, which Kenny responded to, not with more talking, but with a nod of his own. _

_ There was a few seconds of silence following, which Marty found himself dreading, fearing another uncontrolled, unchecked outpour, which always ran the risk of being possibly embarrassing, or possibly nonsensical. But his subconscious, apparently done with it’s sudden revolt against his authority, remained still and quiet. As did the both of them, until Kenny began to straighten up again - not that he needed to posture to stand out a head higher than the rest - and, then, grinned at Marty. Not a small, unconvinced smile or a brief, wider one let slip in a moment of momentary amusement; a large, toothy grin, crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes, intentional and genuine. _

_ “You don’t need to worry about any of that, Marty. Trust me.” As Kenny spoke, the light, seemingly drawn by an inexplicable magnetic pull, fell behind him once again, but now seemed to have somehow wrapped around him, creating flashes of gold highlights all over him, from the straight edge of his nose to the glow of his cheekbones, the wet of his lips and the illumination in his irises. There seemed to be a golden sheen, even, to the white of his teeth as he continued to speak, “You’re with us, Marty. All of that - we’ll deal with it. Together. It’ll be fine - okay?” _

_ Marty was so hypnotized by all the gold that had appeared, as though the man in front of him had been doused in metallic leaf when he wasn’t watching, that he didn’t answer straight away when prompted. Kenny stuck the lollipop back in his mouth and grinned at him through it, plastic caught within his teeth. Marty, once again, forced a nod.  _

_ Kenny removed the lollipop in a single, fluid motion, somehow managing to avoid disturbing his wide smile. Cherry wafted through the air towards him once again. “Just stick with us, Marty,” Kenny reaffirmed to him. “And it’ll be fine.” _

 

* * *

__

Marty’s heart skipped a beat as the tip of his boot scuffed against the floor, sending him stumbling forward and breaking the steady rhythm of his aimless wandering with the one-two thump of his feet. He placed a hand against the wall to ensure he was well and truly balanced once more and let out a heavy breath. He had told himself he was set to trip over his own feet if he kept up going about his day in a daze, and what had he just done? At least, he comforted himself somewhat, he hadn’t fallen completely and faceplanted himself into the floor. The stumble was bad enough. At least nobody was around to see what his day-dreamy brain had caused him to do, either. Nobody would know.

Removing himself from the wall, Marty went to step forward again, feet higher this time, then paused. What had he been doing? Before his brain had decided to dig up useless memories with no use, at least of the practical kind, other than to make him feel emotions and think thoughts that he didn’t understand and that only made the things he  _ did  _ understand more confusing?

Oh, right. He was looking for-

“Zack.”

For a moment, Marty thought he must have well and truly lost his mind. He had to have, if he was now hearing his own thoughts spoken aloud to him in some low, out-of-body voice that certainly wasn’t his. And had a Japanese accent. And, now that he thought about it, sounded rather familiar. 

He glanced to his right, the side from which he had heard said disembodied voice finish his thought, and realized he was stood outside the Suzuki-gun locker-room. At least, he recognized the kanji on the piece of paper stuck to the door as denoting Suzuki-gun’s area, even if that wasn’t what the characters actually stood for (more likely than not, they said something along the lines of, ‘ _ Enter and face the wrath of one Minoru Suzuki’ _ . It wouldn’t surprise him.) In his haze, his wandering feet had managed to bring him to what he was looking for after all. The door was slightly ajar, the light that leaked out from the gap between the frame and the door suggesting there were people inside, and presumably the reason for Marty’s hearing of voices speaking. At least he wasn’t  _ that  _ crazy, yet. He placed a hand against the bare wood and gave the door a gentle push, allowing it to slowly swing open - a dangerous move for a Bullet Club member to make, but he knew Suzuki was still up the front, he had checked, and he wasn’t as afraid of Taka or Kanemaru - and reveal the room inside to him.

Zack sat on one of the plain wooden benches that were positioned at various angles around the room, depending on how and where those currently using the room wanted to sit. He was staring at a spot on the floor a few metres in front of him, far-away behind his eyes, face neutral and still. Desperado stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, massaging the stringy but defined muscles there with his fingers and thumbs. Zack was still in his ring gear from earlier; Desperado wasn’t, he was still in those coordinated tracksuits they all wore. Desperado spoke to Zack in a voice hardly above a murmur as his fingers worked, gaze focused on the back of his head even despite the fact Zack wasn’t looking at him, not even glancing back.

“Zack. You’re ahead of them all. Don’t think for a second you aren’t. They have no idea what you’re bringing to them. They think they do but they don’t, you and I both know this. A loss now means nothing. It just means they’re going to underestimate you when the time comes. But you will be better, and you will twist and bend them until they’re in pieces…”

The door reached the point at which it had opened fully and collided with the opposite wall with a subdued rattle. At the sound, both Zack and Desperado looked up at him, Desperado silencing himself, hands falling to his side. But Marty wasn’t looking at either of them anymore. Instead, he had found himself violently ripped backwards, as though by a chain around his chest attached to a souped-up and smoking truck, into the recesses of his mind where he had been time and time again shoving the items of his thoughts; the dusky grey fog returning and creating a veil across his eyes, upon which scenes, pictures, moments began to be projected.

_ Carrying bags layered with stickers and labels carried off of trans-Pacific flights, filled to bursting with lycra posing as leather and candy colored spandex. Compliments that write themselves without him even having to take to a mental type-writer and that he broadcasts like affirmations on religious radio for the desperate and hopeless that no one listens to anymore because no one is that desperate and hopeless anymore except for the guy saying them. Hotel rooms and meals and door-to-someone else’s-door transport organized in a language he can’t even call Greek because that would suggest at least some familiarity with it. Wearing their badge with honor and knowing how many steps to stay behind the spotlight when walking down the ramp. An ankle swollen from being twisted around a rope; ribs bruised from colliding with steel barricades; a head unable to move from the stiffness and pain of being dropped on it a half dozen times; an entire fist square to the face, worn with honor. Blood on the tongue and broken fingers worn with love. Massaging his shoulders, the back of his neck, still slick and damp, supposedly, naturally, always screaming and singing, fingers wrenched and taped back into place in a second. _

It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen how Desperado was with Zack before. That was something that, as quickly as Zack being a member of Suzuki-gun had been, became just the way things were. He wasn’t sure what made this time unique; whether it was his voice, his gaze, his fingers, that his brain had chosen that particular moment to shine a light on the fog and clear it, illuminating what had previously been merely vague, unrecognizable shapes behind it. For the first time, as he saw Desperado, he also saw himself. And as he saw Zack-

“Marty?” Just as abruptly and urgently as he had been pulled away only a second ago, Zack’s voice yanked Marty back into the present moment, blinking and all of a sudden aware of his body again. He flexed his fingers, feeling the joints click and collide. Desperado was staring at him with a cold stare, but Marty couldn’t say whether it was intended to be a warning or message to go away or if it was how he looked in general. Zack looked at him with a familiar, relaxed expression, waiting on his response, unperturbed by his sudden trip to far-away mind-space. “What’s up?”

Marty shifted in place, feeling the pressure of his weight bearing down move from one foot to the other. “Uh. Hey, Zack. Hey, uh, Desperado.” Desperado’s iced-over expression didn’t move an inch. “I came to...I wanted to have a chat, Zack.”

Zack nodded. He began to straighten up from his hunched-over position, rolling back his shoulders and stretching his arms as he did. Marty couldn’t hear the creaking and cracking that ran along his collarbone to the space between his shoulder blades as he did so, but he didn’t have to; he knew they were there, like he knew if he did the very same movement he would hear the very same. The back of Zack’s head nearly collided with Desperado’s hips as he did so, Desperado remaining stood as he was without even a twitch of movement, staring at Marty as though he was picking up his body in his mind’s eye and performing all the sorts of depraved voodoo he could think of on it, over and over again. He reminded Marty of a watch-dog, a muscled and snarling, glistening black beast of a canine, refusing to stand down even as it’s owner wrenches back on it’s chain. 

“Well, we were just finishing up here. I’m sure the Boss needs you more than I do right now, Desperado.” Marty’s eyes followed Zack’s to Desperado’s face as he looked up at him. Desperado held his glare at Marty for a beat before slowing turning his face away to look back at Zack, inch by inch, as though each degree he angled his chin downwards and his eyes away from Marty was a concentrated effort. “So, if you don’t mind…”

Suzuki didn’t need Desperado for anything more than to throw him a chair to then throw at one of the trainees. Marty knew that, and Zack and Desperado both knew it, too. But none of them said or acknowledged it. Desperado gave a small nod to Zack, then turned to move away. He didn’t say good-bye, but gave Zack a small brush on the shoulder with his hand as he left his side. He shot one last frostbite stare at Marty as he passed him. Then the door was shut, properly this time, and it was him and Zack. 

Zack looked at him and opened his mouth to say something, but Marty beat him to it, finding suddenly that there were things to say, things he  _ had  _ to say right now, or else they would catch alight, burn and then smoulder, releasing a thick and toxic smoke into the air that would blind his vision once more. 

“He likes you.”

For a long few seconds, Zack said nothing, getting to his feet and beginning the process of gathering his stuff in silence. Marty thought he wasn’t going to respond, until he was met with a simple, “Yeah.”

The lack of any even somewhat notable emotion in Zack’s voice - disbelief, or defensive anger, or wariness - took Marty aback. A frown began to form on his face, brows pulling together at the center. “No, I mean like-”

“I know,” Zack cut him off, his voice still unwavering. He looked at Marty, now, with a composed, level stare. Marty met him with his own eyes, and after a moment’s hesitation - thoughts still rolling through his head faster than it seemed they had in weeks - nodded. Not in acceptance, he realized himself as he did it, but in acknowledgement.

“What are you going to do about it?” was all he asked, as Zack returned to packing his bag, which matched the tracksuits, of course. One again, he didn’t answer immediately.

“Don’t know yet.”

It was Marty’s turn, now, to take his time to respond. As fast as his thoughts were running, he couldn’t seem to catch them or make any clarity out of them yet, like the bullet trains that zipped past him everyday but without a single stop in sight for any of them. He felt too close to the situation and yet too far from it all at once. In that singular moment, he had understood, but now that time had kept on ticking and it had well and truly passed, he found there was so much he didn’t understand. Zack’s nonchalant attitude was nothing new, he had  _ always  _ been this way, but right now it felt alien to Marty. A difference as striking as a cool glass of still water against a bubbling and frothing cocktail made up of a clash of colors and flavors. Zack was his best friend, but sometimes - these times - it felt like they took separate spaceships to different planets light years apart. Or that Marty was trying to understand Zack’s role in this theatre act as though it were his own, when they were actually entirely different parts. 

“Well, whatever you do- however you feel- you should tell him.” The sentence was the only words his mind could string together that he could settle on as being even close to enough. It felt weak. It felt like a dam wall shivering under the pressure of the things left unsaid piling up behind it. But he wasn’t ready to break the dam and flood the town and it was enough, for now, to lift some of the pressure. “Soon.”

For the first time, a small frown of his own began to appear on Zack’s face as he looked at Marty. There were cogs working behind his eyes, quietly but rapidly; the same way Zack’s eyes looked the seconds after he had been hit with a rogue shot or caught with a sudden move, as he tried to determine what his opponent’s motivations and strategies were and what they were going for. “Soon, huh? What do you know that I don’t?” To compete with the frown, a growing glint of a smile began to pull at the corners of his mouth as he finished speaking. 

It was an innocuous pebble thrown at the wall of the dam, but it was enough to make Marty’s breath catch for a second. The pebble had landed too close to the weakest point of the wall. “I mean...it’s just…” He paused and took a large breath as he thought about what he wanted to say. In his mind’s eye, at last, he found the shape of what he was trying to say, what he was almost desperately attempting to express, forming, still not entirely clearly but with just enough definition for him to grab a hold of. An image. He left out a heavy exhale; as he did, he felt something catch in his ribcage, a stinging pain hovering over his heart. “No one deserves to just hang around like that.”

Zack let out a low, neutral hum. Marty wasn’t sure whether it was agreement or acknowledgement, or just Zack biding his time before responding again. “Didn’t realize you were so fond of Desperado.” Marty was certain it was a quip this time, and sure enough, as Zack looked at him, the smile, bring with it an amused flash to his eyes, had beaten out the frown. 

“I’m not. It’s just…” He watched Zack, watched as he packed away the last of his stuff, as he zipped up his bag, straightened out his back. In the vague, desperate hope, maybe, that some of his composure, his control, would transfer itself to him, with his spin-cycle washing machine thoughts and disconcerting optical illusion emotions; that he would slip to him the secret remedy, the silver bullet, to tepid the waters, temper the blaze. But it had never happened in all the years they had known each other before, and he knew, even if a part of him didn’t accept, that it wasn’t going to right here, right now, in this locker room. “Come on, you’re a better person than that, Zack,” He finally said. It sounded like an empty, pre-written compliment to tack on to a less-than-convincing argument, and it was. But sometimes it was best to fall back on what others had said hundreds of times before and which everyone knew from memory when what really needed to be said, the truth, was far too colossal and complex to tackle with words just now,

“No, I’m an awful, horrible bastard who twists people into pretzels with Minoru Suzuki.” As he swung his bag over his shoulder, Zack’s smile had turned into a firm grin directed at him. But there was a subdued tone to it, different from his usual joking; his own acknowledgement, Marty decided. “But I get it. I will.” For the first time, Marty found his the corners of his own mouth drawing upwards, a smile cracking open the foggy mask of distant turmoil. “Now, let’s get out of here, alright?”

“Better. Before Suzuki kills me.”

“Right. Before Suzuki kills you.”

 

* * *

Nothing changed, at first, because nothing ever does. On tours that stretch on forever across landscapes that were all so different and strange, they all ended up blending into one homogenous glob of ‘foreign’, tours that for most people end up being of as much significance as the nasty bruise on a thigh that hurts like heaven at first, comes up an awful, sickening purple and black the next day, then slowly fades to greys and greens and yellows until it’s entirely gone and forgotten within a few weeks - on these tours, that make everyone on them begin to question their bodies and minds, epiphanal realizations that seem life-changing in the moment happen more often than an outsider would think.

But as the days turned to dust and were blown away by the draft of more cars and trains and planes, the image of Desperado remained burned into the back of Marty’s mind, a silhouette against bright white sunlight imprinted on his retinas.

When the Bucks arrived at his doorstep for the week to ask, as he knew they would, he said no. Which wasn’t what they thought he would say. They tried again, and again, and then they sent Kenny to his doorstep (a different one, that week) to ask. If it were a match they were wrestling, that was their finisher, designed and crafted and executed with his one glaring weakness in mind. Marty said no, again. Kenny asked him if it was about titles, about winning tournaments and gold and ‘proving himself’. He told him it was fine; that they would take care of that. He was their friend. Marty was reminded of the scent of cherry lollipops, and shook his head, again; no. For a moment, Marty thought he recognized the look of pain on Kenny’s face, tightened face muscles, a set jaw, beating back any outward reaction to an ache of pain rattling through his body, straight from the heart. It was almost enough to rip a remediation straight from Marty’s throat. But then Kenny started talking about Ibushi and how he wasn’t going, either, and Marty smiled and nodded and offered to help him pack.

He helped carry Kenny’s bags to the airport when they left. In the days leading up to the flight, he had helped them make social media accounts, had dug up names and phone numbers and written them down, called some, made proposals and collected statements for them. They were grateful, but Marty could see, in their faces and eyes, they were already those thousands of miles away from him. As he dropped the bags at the airport, he felt more than just the weight of clothes and personal items and whatever else Kenny had chosen to take with him to where they were going fall off his shoulders.

Everyone else waved him good-bye. Kenny gave him a hug. Marty told him, with a small squeeze of his shoulder and another smile, that it was going to be fine.

As their plane took off and disappeared into the sun, the image, at last, faded from Marty’s mind and left it clear.


End file.
